Postcards from Heaven
by Frakme
Summary: What if Sherlock's plane never turned around at the end of His Last Vow? AU. Johnlock. Mycroft feels. There will be a second chapter in the next few days.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N ****What if Sherlock's plane never turned around at the end of His Last Vow?**

**I came up with this headcanon on Tumblr, though when I originally wrote it, it had an unhappier ending. When I decided to flesh it out into a story, I couldn't bear to end it that way. My OTP deserve a happy ending. There will be one more chapter, once it comes back from my beta, from Mycroft's POV.**

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><p>John stood on the tarmac until he could no longer see the plane in the sky, aware of a burning sensation in his eyes. He was aware of Mary's arm lightly tugging on his and had to suppress the urge to viciously pull away. Instead he swallowed and allowed her to lead him back to the car.<p>

"It's for the best, you know," she said, striving for a kind tone but failing miserably. "You can really move on now."

They sat in silence for the rest of the ride back.

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><p>Two months later, he received an anonymous, typewritten letter. Blood test results, from his daughter's heel prick test. A DNA test had been carried out. Only, according to the results, she was not his daughter.<p>

He confronted his wife, who broke down and admitted the truth. The baby was David's, her ex boyfriend's. A quiet rage filled him as he packed basic necessities and left the house, thankful that a baby of three weeks old would have no chance of remembering him. He stayed with Harry, who had been dry for the past year, enabling them to patch up their relationship. He contacted Mycroft Holmes for the first time since Sherlock had left and asked him to help expedite a divorce.

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><p>Six months later, he received a postcard, from Vienna.<p>

**John, I'm sorry. SH**

There was an ache in John's gut as he rubbed his thumb across the familiar script._ I miss you so much, Sherlock. I'm merely existing, without you. Not living._

Once again he contacted Mycroft, this time asking him if he could put him in touch with Sherlock. Mycroft refused and asked the doctor not to contact him again. The next time John tried to ring the older Holmes, the number had been disconnected and so had the landline of Mycroft's parents.

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><p>John found himself a full time job at a walk in centre. Then he moved back to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson only charged him a little more rent than he'd paid before as she'd been fortunate enough to have received a small windfall. Besides, she missed having him around.<p>

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><p>Another postcard came, a full year later. This one from Algiers.<p>

**John, Wish you were here. SH**

John put it with the other one._ I hope you are alright, my friend_, he thought. He picked up a photo of the two of them at John's wedding to Mary, gently touched Sherlock's face in the frame.

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><p>He dated a couple of times, a divorcée like himself, then a woman who'd lost her husband in Iraq. The women were nice enough but there was no connection with either of them, so they didn't last. He didn't even know why he bothered, except it gave him something to do at the weekend.<p>

His manager loved him as he was always up for overtime. Sometimes, he'd see Greg Lestrade or Molly Hooper but they always ended up talking about Sherlock and it resulted in old wounds opening again.

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><p>The third postcard's arrival was when John figured out that Sherlock must be posting them on the doctor's birthday. He chuckled to himself; he didn't even think Sherlock would remember the date. This one came from Phuket.<p>

**John, it's far too humid here and I can't even get a decent cup of tea. SH**

John laughed at that one. He remembered a summer heatwave when Sherlock and he were both living at 221B and the detective was doing his best impression of a wilting lily, lying boneless on the sofa and demanding iced tea. At least John had managed to persuade his immodest flatmate to keep his boxers on.

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><p>The dating stopped. The going out stopped. He went to work, did the shopping, sat in front of the TV. Sometimes he would jog around Regent's Park. He bought himself a bicycle after renting a Boris bike a few times to get to work. It kept him fit. He wondered if he would live a long life, as a sad, lonely, old man. He hoped not. Perhaps if he pushed himself hard enough, he'd bring on a heart attack.<p>

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><p>The fourth postcard punched him in the gut. It was from Lima. Sherlock had drawn a deerstalker on the llama's head which made John chuckle, then he turned it over to see what was written on the other side.<p>

**John, I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I l SH**

John put it with the others, then pulled out a file from the same drawer, full of press cuttings from their cases. He spent the night looking through them whilst knocking back a bottle of Bell's whisky and then cried himself to sleep.

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><p>The fifth year there was no postcard. He wandered around London, shouting at every CCTV camera he saw, asking for Mycroft. People avoided him as if he was a madman. But it worked, on his way home the next night, a familiar black limo pulled up alongside him.<p>

Mycroft hadn't changed much in the last few years, perhaps a little thinner, his hairline receded a little more. But he still had that same dissecting stare.

John got in the car without question.

"He's dead, isn't he?" he asked in a voice that sounded like it belonged in the grave. Mycroft didn't answer and the car set off.

After about half an hour, Mycroft turned to him.

"Tell me the truth, Dr. Watson. Who is Sherlock Holmes to you?"

"My friend… my best friend. He was," John swallowed the lump forming in his throat, blinked rapidly to stop the burning in his eyes. "He was everything to me."

"Did you love him?" Mycroft's voice was hard and relentless.

"He gave up everything for me and I don't know if I even deserved it. Yes, damn you, I loved him. I still do."

"The mission I sent him on, was a suicide mission. He was expected to survive no more than six months. It was ordered as punishment for Magnusson's murder."

"Oh God," whispered John. "But the postcards… he sent me postcards."

"Do you really think I didn't love my brother? That I wouldn't do anything and everything to save him? I brokered a deal. I got those who condemned him to allow him to return in five years, if he survived the mission. Then I used what influence I had to ensure he survived it. As always, he exceeded expectations and is returning early."

John held his breath, not wanting to believe the other man's words. Then the car pulled up and they got out onto a small airfield. He could see a plane coming down, a small twin prop.

He watched as the plane landed and taxied close to where they stood. The door opened and a lean figure came down the steps. John wasn't even aware he was running until he was halfway there, seeing Sherlock running towards him.

When they came together it was if a magnetic force had slammed them together. They clutched at each other, wanting to touch, not knowing what to do with their hands and arms.

"John!" sobbed Sherlock, pressing his face into the smaller man's shoulder. John pulled him close, feeling his own tears begin to flow.

"You're here, you're really here!" John was laughing and crying at the same time, unable to believe this was real. Sherlock lifted his head, to reveal red-rimmed, verdigris eyes. Eyes that had haunted John's dreams for five long, lonely years.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you, that I didn't when I thought it was the last chance I had. I thought wrong, now I do have another chance and I wish to make the most of it." He took a deep breath. "John, I love you."

"Sherlock, Oh God, Sherlock, you idiot, you beautiful, impossible man! _I love you too_."

Mycroft turned away from the sight of the two men kissing passionately. And if anyone dared to suggest he wiped a tear from his eye, he would have them taken into a small room and shot.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Mycroft's POV**

It was with a heavy heart that Mycroft laid out the plan to Sherlock, laden with guilt at his part in Sherlock's destruction, despite knowing his little brother had left him no choice.

However, with help from Lady Smallwood, he'd managed to commute what effectively was his brother's death sentence. If he somehow survived the mission that would likely end in his death, he would be permitted to return to England. But only after five years had passed and during his time away, he would not be allowed contact with any of his friends in England.

When Sherlock asked for a few moments alone with the doctor, Mycroft realised something that he had missed, that really he shouldn't have. How could have been so blind? He cursed himself inwardly that he'd not seen Sherlock's true motivations for his actions.

_Oh, Sherlock,_ he thought sadly. _After everything that has happened, you still did not heed me. Sentiment has brought about your downfall. Now your heart is broken and your life may be lost._

As the plane disappeared into the blue, he vowed to redouble his efforts to save his beloved little brother from his fate.

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><p>There was something he had to do first. He'd seen the look on Mary's face, when the plane took off, the look of triumph, that she had defeated the great consulting detective and had safeguarded her future. Mycroft knew there was much more to her than she had confessed, staring at her with loathing. It was not serendipity that brought her into contact with the grieving John Watson, she had been placed in his path. Mycroft was determined to expose her perfidy but he would have to bide his time. He would get his opportunity.<p>

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><p>It was child's play to obtain arrange a DNA test on the blood sample from baby Watson after her heel prick test. After a moment's consideration, he decided to send the results to John anonymously.<p>

He was most gratified when John approached him for his help in circumventing the year's wait before applying for divorce. However, he was disappointed when the doctor failed to ask after Sherlock. It seemed that his brother's affections were not returned.

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><p>Then out of the blue, six months after Sherlock's departure, John contacted Mycroft again, told him of the postcard he'd received and asked to be put in touch with his absent brother. The timing couldn't be worse. Sherlock had failed to check in as expected and Mycroft was fearful that the efforts he'd expended to save his brother's life were for naught.<p>

It infuriated Mycroft that after everything Sherlock had sacrificed, the man who was supposed to be his little brother's best friend had waited so long to ask about his wellbeing. So he refused the doctor and told him not to contact him again.

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><p>He nearly wept with relief when his agent contacted him to notify him that Sherlock was safe in Turkey. He was almost tempted to contact John to tell him. He'd changed both his mobile number and his parents landlines after his last contact with the doctor, furious that it had taken John so long to ask after his former flatmate and best friend.<p>

He knew he should've put a stop to the postcards as Sherlock was contravening the terms of his exile. Yet he didn't, feeling it absolved him of the responsibility of telling John that the former consulting detective was still alive.

Then John surprised him by moving back to Baker Street. 221B was empty; it was child's play to arrange for Mrs Hudson to have the winning entry for a million pound prize draw she'd forgotten she entered.

Still, he decided that perhaps it was for the best if he didn't contact the doctor, to allow him some time to nurse his wounds. After all, there was nothing to be gained from it, not until Sherlock was able to return. Either in an airline seat or in a wooden box. He did keep a minimum surveillance on the doctor, watching to see what he would do with his life now.

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><p>Communications with Sherlock over the next four years were sporadic and via a third party only. He knew his brother was alive, that he worked on several missions for MI6, investigating terrorist threats abroad. After his last assignment foiled an attempt to assassinate the British Ambassador to Jordan, a close friend of Lady Smallwood, she had told Mycroft he could bring him back, six months early.<p>

His first conversation with his brother in nearly four and a half years took place just a couple of days before Sherlock boarded the plane that would be bringing him to England.

"Mycroft, thank you, I'm looking forward to coming home at last. Is Baker Street unoccupied?"

"Actually it isn't, brother… Dr Watson is living there."

There was a sharp gasp of breath from the other end of the line.

"Why? What happened?"

"He and Mary divorced, not long after the baby was born. He found out she wasn't his daughter, as I am sure you suspected all along."

"I did. But I thought he would be happier with her than me, that he wanted that life. Tell me… does he still talk about me?"

"I haven't spoken to him in four years, Sherlock. Though I suspect that, with him living at Baker Street, you must be in his thoughts."

"I need to see him, please Mycroft. I have to tell him what I didn't say before."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed. "Don't be hasty. Please."

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><p>"Sir, you need to look at this." As Mycroft walked into his office, Anthea gestured at the screen of her laptop. Several CCTV images showed John Watson looking straight into the cameras and mouthing Mycroft's name.<p>

"Eyewitnesses reports say that he was shouting your name, demanding to know about Sherlock. They said he appeared distressed."

"Thank you, Anthea. Tell my driver we'll be stopping at Baker Street tomorrow to pick Doctor Watson up on the way to the airfield."

"Yes, Sir. Will that be all?"

"Please transfer the footage to my laptop. I would appreciate it if you would ensure I wasn't disturbed."

"Of course." The brunette quickly entered some commands on her laptop, before removing it and herself from the office, shutting the door quietly behind her. Once the door was shut, Mycroft access the footage on his laptop.

He sat watching the image of the army doctor, seeing the desperation on his face. Yet, in his mind, he could recall so clearly the pain in his brother's face as he boarded the plane. Mycroft had spent many years trying to protect his brother's fragile heart by teaching him that he was above sentiment, to value reason above emotion. Only for a broken down ex-army doctor to undo all his work.

"Oh, Sherlock. Is he truly worth it?"

There was only one way to find out. He needed to know that Sherlock hadn't succumbed to sentiment in vain. Because, having failed his brother so many times before, he wasn't going to fail him again.


End file.
